Twenty Eight Years Later
by KnightedRogue
Summary: Caught between two periods of grief, how does one respond? ANH and postROTJ Leia ficlet.


A/N: I've always been fascinated with how Leia copes with pain. As a character, she's fascinating to write and even more fun to torture. This is a result of me 1) reviewing all the ficlets I've written but never posted, and 2) deciding that if it makes not one iota of sense, I'm in good company. Please don't fret too much over the timeline - I'm having a hard time distinguishing how far apart the two events occurred. :)

**Twenty-Eight Years Later**

KnightedRogue

* * *

Twenty-eight years later, she will be standing at the same mirror, with the same knife held in the same hand, with the same brown eyes expressing the same thought.

_and with this, I give you all_

Much will happen between these two moments, and time will press on after that moment in twenty-eight years. Perhaps she'll have another twenty-eight years for time to strain her, leave her bent and broken, give her another moment in which to grieve so completely.

That's so much speculation.

_I could never give you before_

She'll grieve _now._

_for your last farewell._

And in twenty-eight years, the environment will change. The deckplates will be as cold, but the tiles renovated. The counter will be as formulaic, but more items will sit upon it, a testimony to what will be twenty years of marriage. And the image in the mirror will have changed. Her skin will sallow and darken, wrinkles breaking the smooth reflection she looks at now. Her shoulders will slump a bit lower than before, where now there stands a righteous princess holding the knife with the same nick on its handle. She will be replaced by a whisper of who she is, a thin stream of paper royalty that once responded to the title of princess.

_for all I haven't done _

She will eye the reflection in tame surprise, lifting her chin up slowly to make sure she could still do so, turning her head this way and that, analyzing the curve of cheek, the darkened rings around the same eyes. She'll swallow the pride that caresses her vanity and remove the band holding her hair back.

As it does now, her hair will rustle down her back, spill over her shoulder. Now it is a smooth brown cascade. It will be a textured mass of brown and silver, but she won't mind. The silver will remind her of her life the past twenty-eight years, of the children who will contribute so carefully, recklessly, to her aging.

_for all I wish I had done_

She'll pull her fingers through the length of her hair, it will be shorter than it is now, until the glossy strands are complete and she can find no other way to stall. And the knife will feel so familiar to her as she separates a partition of hair, almost comforting in its reminiscence. And she will close her eyes

_for all I cannot do now_

and she will remember herself as she is today, with a partition of glossy hair in her left hand and the same nicked knife in the right

_I give this all to you, my loved one_

as she stares into the reflection, then closes her eyes. Will feel the tremors shake. Will open her mouth, the same as she now does, in a wordless cry of anguish as the nicked knife wavers in her hand. And she will cry. And it will not seem so foolish to cry because she will have had twenty-eight years of tears, experience, life to teach her that crying is not a sin.

_whom I've lost._

It will be a fact of life.

_Whom I've lost._

For, twenty-eight years earlier, she stands here, at this spot, riveted to her reflection as she asks for penitence for a crime she believes she committed to her people. She performs the last rite of mourning, the peace for those lives she destroyed, for the horror she inflicted on her own. She feels unsure – having never cut her hair, how does one properly remove the weight of her femininity, her life? Her hairis intended as an offering to the people she'd failed, for the endless torture she instigated.

_My loved one._

And, twenty-eight years later, she will stand there, at this spot, riveted to her very human reflection as she bids farewell to her youngest child. She performs the last rite of mourning, the end for the life she created, for the horror he inflicted on her. She feels unsure – having never lost someone so precious, how does one properly remove the weight of possession, of maternity? Her hair will be sacrificed as an offering to the child she's failed, for the life she'd lost.

And twenty-eight years later, unlike the first time, she will scrape the blade with the nicked handle through her femininity, her right as a woman and mother, to remember her child. To reconcile herself with his passing. She will stare, through screens of tears, at the falling strands, feeling her burden not lifted, but compounded.

_I give you all I could never give you before for your last farewell._

She will give up a priceless cultural possession, the feature that creates her identity, for the child she could not protect.

_Your last farewell._

She will feel the tears escape, let them roll down, catching on the wrinkles that are not there now, and will duck her chin, surrender the last of it, bowing before the man she will have to give up. The baby that will have eyes the color of innocence and honor. The toddler with the small hands that will latch onto three fingers. The boy that runs away but always returns. The man that will run away and will not return.

_My loved one._

And she will turn off the light, open the door, crawl to the bed where her husband will sleep and position herself as close to him as possible. For he will feel the same. And he will share her burden and help her heal, because she will never move past her youngest child, but will keep his memory in mind as she lives her life. She will have given him everything she will have to offer. And she will repeat the same mantra as she will have every night since twenty-eight years ago before she closes her eyes in sleep. A prayer so familiar, she will think it without thinking. And she will recognize the new subject, added to the original, as her youngest child, the man she will love and the man she will lose.

_And with this, Anakin, I give you all I could never give you before for your last farewell; for all I haven't done, for all I wish I'd done, for all I cannot do now, I give this to you, my loved one, whom I've lost. _

* * *

Alright. That's officially out of my system. Hallelujah.

And, btw, no, this is not a songfic. I made it up. No one can sue me for lyrics that don't actually exist, right?

Please review as a consideration to the hard work we all put into these things. Thank you!

KR


End file.
